The Plan
“Commander in Chief…”
Someone called out to me cautiously. I turned around to see Major General Edward Almond standing there with a worried look in his eyes. The X Corps commander, Edward Almond—the very man I had ripped into in my thesis as MacArthur's yes-man.
“Sir, are you feeling unwell? Should I call a medic?” Genuine concern filled his voice.
I couldn't say a word. My mouth wouldn't move. Outside, the artillery booms continued to echo.
BOOM!BOOM!
I looked back at the mirror. The hand clutching the corncob pipe trembled faintly.
'You try it yourself.' That voice lingered in my ears. Was this a curse or an opportunity?
My 50,000-word thesis. All the criticisms packed inside it. Intelligence failures, arrogance, misjudgments. Now I had to shoulder every last one of them myself?
Dizziness hit me. The tent ceiling seemed to spin wildly. I squeezed my eyes shut.
“No…” All that escaped my lips was a short groan.
The morning aboard the USS Mount McKinley, the flagship, felt utterly unreal. Every subtle sway of the ship on the waves made everything inside creak. Metal clanging against metal, the thud of sailors' boots racing across the deck, and the intermittent rumble of distant naval gunfire.
The memories from a day ago—yesterday—flickered like a haze through hot fog. I'd been out of it for a full twenty-four hours.
Creeeak. The cabin door swung open, and the duty orderly entered carrying a tray. Toast, scrambled eggs, bacon, and steaming coffee.
He carefully set the tray on the table and snapped to attention.
“Breakfast, General. How are you feeling?”
I stared blankly at him from the edge of the bed. He was just a kid. Barely out of his teens, face covered in freckles. Had this boy made it home safe, or had he frozen on the ice at Chosin Reservoir…?
Pointless thoughts chained together.
“I'm fine.” The voice that came out was still MacArthur's. That gravelly tone, optimized for command, which I'd never quite mastered even after decades of study.
I picked up the coffee cup. My hand trembled slightly.
'Calm down. Get it together.'
The hot coffee slid down my throat. The bitter taste flooded my mouth, sharpening my foggy mind a bit. The old man's face in the mirror came back to me. Wrinkled skin, graying hair, stubborn jawline. Douglas MacArthur. A man in his seventies.
I hadn't slept a wink all night. Lying on the narrow bunk, staring at the ceiling, I'd tried to piece it together like a madman.
Possession. Time travel. That clichéd setup from fantasy novels had become my reality.
At first, I thought it was a dream. Pinching my cheeks, biting the back of my hand hard—nothing woke me. When I punched the cabin wall and pain shot through my knuckles, I had no choice but to accept it.
This was real.
Clack, clack. The orderly left. I took a bite of toast. The crisp texture hit my tongue. Butter flavor filled my mouth. The butter of the 1950s wasn't much different from 2024's. That trivial fact hammered home the reality.
'Okay. Think. Calmly.'
While I'd been lost in confusion for a full day, the Incheon Landing Operation had proceeded on its original schedule. No surprise there. The plan had been finalized months ago, and execution was up to the unit commanders.
It was a plan rewritten dozens of times as troops embarked and disembarked in drills. Even if MacArthur had fallen into the sea and wandered around dazed all day, the machine didn't stop. The staff followed the pre-set plan, the Marines secured Wolmido, and the beachheads at Red Beach and Blue Beach were expanding.
Lucky, in a way. MacArthur's staff seemed to think the old man had caught a cold from falling in the ocean. The doctor had come and gone all day yesterday, muttering about a fever, and I'd hidden behind that excuse to buy a full day.
But I couldn't hide anymore.
'I'm MacArthur now. Supreme Commander of UN forces. Commander of Far East Command. General of the Army.'
I set down the coffee cup.
'And I know exactly how the Korean War unfolds.'
The contents of my thesis unrolled in my mind like a scroll. The 50,000 words I'd slaved over through the night. MacArthur's blunders, Chinese intervention, Chosin Reservoir, the 1.4 Retreat. I knew the causes and outcomes of every tragedy.
'Then I can change it.'
'That bastard… whoever you are, if I follow your words—"you try it"—and fulfill whatever intent you had? Then maybe I can go back?'
I shot to my feet. Grabbed the five-star cap from beside the bed, slipped on the sunglasses. MacArthur's face in the mirror stared back at me. Those eyes, filled with shock and terror just yesterday, now held a different light.
'Let's begin.'
I flung open the cabin door.
“Summon Major General Almond. And convene all key staff in the briefing room. Within thirty minutes.”
The aide standing in the corridor jumped and saluted sharply.
“Sir? Oh, yes, General! Right away! But are you sure you're—”
“I said I'm fine.” I cut him off. That's what MacArthur would do. Firmly, leaving no room for argument.
Tat-tat-tat. The sound of the aide scurrying down the corridor faded.
I took a deep breath and headed to the briefing room.
The briefing room was a spacious area in the center of the USS Mount McKinley. A massive map of the Korean Peninsula hung on the wall, bristling with red and blue pins marking the battle lines. A more detailed tactical map lay spread on the table, with Incheon's terrain, road networks, and enemy dispositions marked in pencil and colored pens.
The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and the key staff had already taken their seats. Edward Almond, X Corps commander. His neatly pressed uniform gleamed with major general stars. Sharp eyes under a narrow forehead scanned the map. This man was unmatched in loyalty to MacArthur. Which was exactly the problem.
Across from him sat Major General Oliver P. Smith. Commander of the 1st Marine Division. The polar opposite of Almond. A mild face framed by silver-rimmed glasses, but his gaze was calm and resolute. In history, this was the man who saved the Marines at Chosin by defying Almond's reckless orders—a true soldier.
Admiral Doyle represented the Navy, commanding the fleet off Incheon. Exhaustion was etched on his face, no doubt from maneuvering ships through Incheon's extreme tidal channels without proper sleep for days.
The rest of the seats were filled by artillery, engineering, and intelligence staff.
As I entered, all eyes snapped to me.
Creeeak-thud. The door closed.
“All hands, stand!”
On someone's command, the officers rose in unison. Boots stamped the floor.
I scanned them. Shoulders sparkling with stars, chests covered in ribbons, dozens of eyes looking up at me. Expectation, respect, and a hint of unease mixed in those gazes. No wonder—the dazed commander from yesterday had suddenly called an emergency meeting.
'These are real soldiers. Not like me, some desk-jockey tapping away in his room. People who've bled on real battlefields.'
I suppressed the urge to shrink back. I was Douglas MacArthur now. The highest-ranking man in this room. When I spoke, these men would move.
“Sit.”
They sat at my single word. I walked to the head of the table, removing the corncob pipe from my mouth. The light clink as I set it down echoed clearly in the quiet room.
Click.
“Report the current situation.”
The intelligence officer stood. Right—around this time, it was Major General Charles Willoughby. German-American naturalized citizen, one of MacArthur's die-hard loyalists. The very man I'd skewered in my thesis as the prime culprit for downplaying Chinese intervention risks.
Willoughby stepped forward with a thick stack of documents, pointing at the Incheon area with a pointer.
“General, the Incheon beachhead is securely held. The 1st Marine Division has full control of Wolmido, and resistance at Red Beach and Blue Beach has been largely eliminated. No organized enemy counterattacks confirmed yet.”
The pointer moved from Incheon toward Seoul.
“Enemy forces are believed to be reorganizing along the rail line from Incheon to Seoul. Intelligence indicates concentrations around Yeongdeungpo, though exact numbers are still being assessed.”
Listening to Willoughby's report, I ground my teeth inwardly. 'Still being assessed,' my ass. Knowing history made it infuriating. North Korea's Incheon garrison had already devolved to rear-guard status early in the war, and the hastily assembled Seoul defenders lacked proper heavy equipment. But I couldn't just blurt that out. How was the supreme commander supposed to know details the intel reports hadn't even covered yet? No way to explain it.